


Thistle and Weeds

by ajkal2



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blindness, Eye Trauma, Hospitals, M/M, Mild Gore, Permanent Injury, Time Travel, buckle in lads! this'll be fun :D, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:29:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25766743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajkal2/pseuds/ajkal2
Summary: “Jon,” Martin says. “Are you alright?”Jon’s head lifts, turns toward the sound. He’s shaking. His teeth are bared, a flash of white against his dark skin, but it’s not a smile. There’s something- His eyes, they don’t look right-His mouth opens, jaw trembling, and he says “Martin?” The bright overhead lights gleam off the blood pouring down his face. His eyes are black, empty sockets.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & The OG Archives Crew, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 585
Kudos: 996





	1. it’s getting dark, darling

**Author's Note:**

> But plant your hope with good seeds  
> Don't cover yourself with thistle and weeds  
> Rain down, rain down on me  
> \- Mumford & Sons, Thistle and Weeds

It’s edging toward five o’clock, on the last Friday of the month. The Magnus Institute is quiet, it's workers winding down for the day. Even the Head of the Institute is keeping one eye on the clock. All is quiet. Except, of course, in the Archives.

Martin applauds, and Sasha does a neat curtsey, flopping back into her seat. She sticks her tongue out at Tim. “You just got smoked, Stoker,” she crows. Martin doesn’t really understand why they’re so competitive, but he tries not to get in the middle of it all.

Tim narrows his eyes, tapping his novelty boxing kangaroo pen against his lips, deep in thought. “Well played, James. The Case of the Ghost Piñata is going to be,” He pauses. “Hard to beat.”

Sasha throws a Biro at Tim. It clatters onto Martin’s desk, and he tucks it into his pen-pot. Always nice to have new stationary.

“But,” Tim continues, “All is not lost. For we have one, final member of the Archival Assistants Guild, who has not yet submitted his entry in the prestigious Fake Statement of the Month Awards.” Martin’s stomach sinks. Shit, he didn’t think he needed to-

“Martin Blackwood,” Tim declares, pointing his kangaroo pen at Martin. “Show your entry.”

Martin looks at his desk. "Um.” He'd kind of assumed it would just be a Tim and Sasha thing, but- Where was that one he was reading on Wednesday? That could be good, that was- He pulls open the filing cabinet behind him, flicking through. “Here!” he pulls out the brown file he’d marked with a yellow paperclip. “Statement, uh, 9611213. It’s about a set of flats- Well, this lady thinks her flat is haunted, because she keeps hearing banging noises in the night.” Martin opens the file, almost spilling the flimsy sheets of handwritten cursive. 

Sasha waggles her eyebrows, propping her chin up on her fists. “Let me guess, her neighbours are newlyweds?” 

“Kind of,” Martin confirms. He closes the file again, hands it over. The details are coming back to him, and he smiles. “But, the good bit is, she says that it can’t be the neighbours, because they’re a pair of confirmed bachelors.” 

Tim’s head shoots up. "Oh, nice!" 

“Hell yeah," Sasha says, flipping the file open eagerly. She smiles to herself, scanning the statement. “961, you said?”

“Yeah, sixties.” Martin says, leaning back in his chair. “But they’d been living together since the war. Close friends, apparently,” 

“Very close friends.” Tim says, bouncing in his seat. “Give that here once you’re done, I want to-”

Something crashes in Document Storage. 

“Bags not going,” Tim says quickly, Sasha half a second behind.

Another crash. Tim and Sasha look at him expectantly. Martin stands up, squeezing out from behind his desk. “If I die, it’s your fault,” he tells Tim. 

Tim screws up his face, points at Sasha. “It’s at least 60% her fault, c’mon.” 

Martin gets the key to Document Storage, tuning out the argument. The rack’s right beside Jon’s office door, and Martin can hear Jon talking to himself, a comforting rumble of noise. He’s probably trying a new recording method. Sasha swears she’d seen him hunting for batteries for an honest-to-God tape recorder earlier. Martin smiles at the thought, shakes his head. Jon had been trying something on his phone, when Martin brought the tea in earlier. Black with two sugars, today. Maybe Jon would actually drink it this time. Hopefully. Martin walks back across the room, musing on milk-to-tea ratios. He pushes the key into the lock, opens the door, and- 

Something’s off. Martin freezes, half a step into the room. Something- A sound, Martin realises. Faint, he almost can’t make it out, Tim and Sasha are still- But it sounds like breathing-panting. Something in the room is gasping for air, hyperventilating. 

Martin reaches for the light switch, flicking it on. There’s nothing he can see, but the room is full of racks of shelves, long aisles running away from him. The door’s been locked, he’s been sitting in front of it all day. It’s climate controlled, there shouldn’t be any other way in or out.

He can still hear it. 

“Hello?” Martin says, feeling ridiculous. “Anyone there?” Tim and Sasha shut up.

The breathing stops. Then it starts again faster, and there are noises, horrible sobs between the gasps and- It’s laughter, Martin thinks, and the skin on his arms prickles. Behind the shelf, someone’s laughing. It sounds- wrong. Something is wrong. 

“Hello?” he calls, a bit louder. The laughter shuts off. 

“Alright?” Tim says from the door, biceps crossed, leaning up against the frame. 

Martin steps further into the room. The fluorescent lights hum gently, the rows of shelves of boxes of statements casting deep black shadows. The aisle of shelves across from the door is just- dozens of boxes with peeling sticky labels, piled on top of rickety metal shelving units. Silent.

Martin moves over to look down the next row. There’s a ceiling tile missing, about halfway along. “I thought I heard-”

There’s another crash, then a curse, harsh and breaking, fracturing into pained sobs, gasps. It’s coming from the aisle by the wall, the last one. Martin looks back at Tim, eyes wide. 

Tim pushes off the frame, frowning. He walks past Martin, muscles coiled. “Hello?” he starts, voice firm, “Anyone down h-”, but he gets to the end of the aisle and lurches to a stop. “Boss?” he says, confused, and Martin rushes up behind him. 

Jon’s there, perched on the edge of the narrow cot, shaking. A couple of upturned boxes of statements have fallen onto the cot, one on the floor, files spilling out. Jon looks- different. His hair is long enough to tie back, strands cascading down past his shoulders, hanging limply around his face. They sway slightly, in rhythm with his gasping breaths. His head is down, his hands curled loosely on his lap, and he’s hunched up, shoulders curled in. He’s thinner, way thinner, half-starved. He’s wearing a jumper, huge on him, but it’s stained with- is that blood? 

“Jon,” Martin says. “Are you alright?”

Jon’s head lifts, turns toward the sound. He’s still shaking. His teeth are bared, a flash of white against his dark skin, but it’s not a smile. There’s something- His eyes, they don’t look right somehow-

His mouth opens, jaw trembling, and he says “Martin?” The bright overhead lights gleam off the blood pouring down his face. His eyes are black, empty sockets.

“Holy shit,” Tim breathes. 

Martin pushes past him, hurries down the row. Jon needs- Jesus, his eyes, he needs a hospital, he needs- “Bandages,” Martin tells Tim, “Where’s the-”

Tim backs up, bumping into a shelf. “Sasha!” he yells. “First aid kit, where the fuck’s the-” He runs round the corner, back into the office. 

“And- Call 999,” Martin says after him, but he’s already gone. Martin turns back to Jon, trying to get a look, figure out what’s going on. It looks even worse up close. 

Blood is- everywhere. The fluid, the- whatever’s usually inside eyeballs, it’s spilling out of Jon’s, mixing with the blood, clumps of torn flesh- Martin swallows. He- They’d dissected a cow’s eye, once, GCSE Biology. He remembered how it had- popped, fluid spilling out around the scalpel. There hadn’t been this much blood. There- why was there this much _blood_? Jon’s breathing is shaking. His- everything is shaking. 

Focus. Medical attention, what needs fixing, what- There are cuts. Around Jon’s eyes, the skin is inflamed and bloody but- there are cuts. Martin’s hands flutter in the air. He doesn’t want it to get infected, his hands aren’t clean, but- A clump of flesh slides over Jon’s cheekbone like a tear. Martin’s stomach turns over. He takes a deep breath, trying to centre himself. Jon’s head turns towards the sound. His eyelids are in tatters. Jesus, he must be in so much pain. 

“It’s going to be OK,” Martin says on autopilot. He puts a hand on Jon’s shoulder. The jumper is damp, sodden with blood. Underneath, Jon’s shoulder is bony and brittle. He moves, suddenly, grabbing for Martin’s wrist.

Jon’s hand feels wrong, the texture of the skin too smooth. “Trap.” Jon gasps. “It was a trap, the statement. Magnus wrote it, it was-” His head isn’t quite angled towards Martin.

“A statement?” Martin looks down. There are papers scattered on the floor, fallen out of the boxes. “Jon, we’re going to get you some help. Tim’s gone to get-”

“Tim?” Jon repeats, incredulous. His forehead creases, like he was going to frown, and the muscles under his eyes contract, and he cries out, face crumbling into a blank mask of pain. Fresh blood seeps from the scratches across his eyelids. 

“Fuck.” Sasha says from the end of the row. She’s holding a box, the first aid kit. She strides to them, her lips pinched. “Don’t touch anything.” 

“What?” Martin asks.

“We don’t know- whatever did this to him, it could be- just, don’t touch anything.” Sasha says, shoving the box onto the cot. “What happened?” She reaches out for Jon’s chin, trying to pull his face into the light.

As soon as she touches him, Jon jerks backwards, pulling Martin’s wrist with him. “Who’s there?” he asks. “Martin?” 

“It’s just me and Sasha.” Martin says, the words tripping off his tongue. “That was Sasha, though, who touched you.” Jon keeps- asking for him. Saying his name. Hell, Jon’s still got Martin’s wrist in a vice-grip, they’re practically _holding hands_. It’s- Jon glared at him for daring to bring tea this morning. What the hell is going on? 

“Oh.” Jon says. “This isn’t real.” Then he starts laughing again. Martin winces at the sound. 

Sasha purses her lips, grabbing Jon’s chin and holding it firmly. “Martin, did you see what happened? If there’s an artefact loose, or a Leitner, we need to know what it is.” She dabs at Jon’s eyes, and he hisses, flinching away. She follows his motion, clearing away more blood.

“No, I didn’t see- An artefact?” Martin echoes, his heart jumping into his throat. He looks around, but there aren’t any books, just- statements, scattered across the floor. Boxes. Normal things, things that he sees every day. “He said something about a statement,” Martin tells her.

Sasha nods. “Don’t read anything. Whatever it is made him claw his own fucking eyes out,” Sasha says, cool. “We need to contain it before it gets anyone else.” 

“Claw his own…” Martin looks back at Jon. Now some of the blood is clearing, there’s a pattern in the cuts around Jon’s eyes. They’re in sets, the deepest running parallel to each other across Jon’s eyelids. Martin looks at Jon’s hand, limp against his wrist. His fingers are caked in gore. One of his fingernails is broken, and the others, there’s something dark and wet underneath. “Jesus Christ,” he says faintly. Jon’s lips purse. His shoulders are tense. 

Sasha drops her blood-soaked wipe to the floor, reaches for two gauze pads. “Martin, get the papers off the floor. We’ll have to burn them,” she says. 

Jon’s head snaps up at that. “No,” he protests, struggling against Sasha’s grip on his chin. “You can’t.”

“I thought we weren’t real?” Sasha reminds him sweetly. 

Before Jon can answer, the door to Document Storage slams back open, cracking into a set of shelves. 

Tim rounds the corner into the aisle, spitting mad. He’s pulling someone behind him, by a tight grip on their upper arm, and he shoves them forward, pulling them around, and- It’s Jon. Jon as Martin saw him this morning, short hair and scowling and in a dress shirt, pushing his half-moon glasses back onto his nose. 

“There,” Tim snarls “you fucking wanker, there’s your fucking proof,” and he points aggressively at the Jon still perched on the edge of the cot. 

There’s- two Jons. “Jesus Christ,” Martin says, again. 

“Explain _that_ ,” Tim spits at the Jon still standing, his eyes like daggers.


	2. too dark to see

Phone. Tim needs a phone, needs to call an ambulance, but his mobile doesn’t- this damn basement, the signal’s _shit,_ it never- 

There are wired phones on their desks. Ancient ones, straight out of the 90s, off-white with that long twirling cord. Tim grabs for the handset. He dials, but his fingers are shaking so bad he hits the 9 and the 8 at the same time, and has to start again. It’s just 999, it’s _designed_ to be _easy_ to dial- His finger slips again. 

“Fuck,” he hisses to himself, pushing the handset back onto the base. It falls off, clattering onto the floor. “Stupid piece of shit.” 

TIm rubs at his face, fingers pushing into his eyes. He remembers Jon’s eyes, dark blood and bits coming out and- He snatches his hands away from his eyes. 

There’s a voice, Tim realises, dimly. Someone’s talking. 

“...name is Jonathan Sims. I work for the Magnus Institute, an organisation dedicated to academic research into the esoteric...”

It’s coming from Jon’s office. It’s- If Tim hadn’t literally just seen Jon, bleeding out from his _eyes_ , he’d think it was just the boss. He walks over to Jon’s office door, presses his ear against the heavy wood. 

“...hired me to replace the previous Head Archivist, one Gertrude Robinson, who has recently...”

He reaches out, turns the brass doorknob. The door creaks as it opens. His boss is sitting, tiny behind that huge desk. He gestures pointedly to the running tape recorder in front of him, scowling. 

Tim’s boss is- sitting on the cot in Document Storage _bleeding out_ from his _eyes_. He just- Martin and Sasha are still- His boss isn’t _here_. Isn’t- sitting behind his desk, recording statements. Which means that, whatever the fuck this is, it’s not Jon. 

The thing pretending to be Jon rolls it’s eyes briskly. “Tim, I’m recording, can whatever this is wait-”

Tim takes a single step into the room, blocking the doorway. “Stay right where you are,” he says, and his voice shakes a little. This is- like Danny. Copies, blood, stuff that doesn’t make _sense,_ this is-

The copy raises a sardonic eyebrow, just like Jon does when he thinks he’s being clever. Tim feels _sick._ “I wasn’t exactly planning on moving-”

Tim’s face does something savage, and the copy shuts up. He takes steps forward, using the motion to slam his palms onto the desk. It stings. The sound makes the thing flinch backwards in its chair. Tim lets himself lean forward, loom. He’s bigger than Jon, always was, Jon’s tiny, which means he’s bigger than this _copy,_ this _thing_ stealing his boss’s shape. “What did you do to Jon?” Tim asks it, voice low and deadly.

The thing glances at his hands on the desk, frowning harder. “I am Jon,” it says, and it sounds like it thinks he’s _stupid_. “Tim, what-”

TIm slams his hands onto the desk again, and the yelp the thing makes is so satisfying. “Don’t _lie_ to me,” he says. “What the fuck did you fucking do to him? _”_

The thing looks up, meets Tim’s gaze. “Is this some kind of joke?” it asks. “Because it’s not very-”

Tim thinks of clowns, and his blood pounds in his ears.“I’m not fucking _joking,”_ he snarls, leaning over the desk,“We found- in Document Storage, we found what you fucking left there, we-” 

The thing’s gaze flicks between Tim’s eyes. “Document Storage just has documents in it,” it says, “That’s- It’s where we put the- the documents.” There’s a hint of doubt, voice rising like a question. 

It’s faking. It has to be faking. It’s- damn good at faking, but it’s meant to imitate their boss, of course it would sound just like him. “Where we put the documents,” Tim repeats. He remembers Jon’s eyes again, the way the gore had glistened in the harsh light. The thing stares at him. It’s eyes are dark brown, pupils almost invisible.

Tim darts left, around the desk. The thing pushes to it’s feet, moving backwards, but Tim’s hand wraps around it’s stick-arm, holding it in place. 

“Good lord, Tim,” it splutters, yanking at his grip. He- pulls it out of the office, dragging it so it stumbles. If it won’t admit to what it’s done, maybe- He’ll show it the proof, show it that they _know_. It can’t keep hiding after that. “Let go of me, what do you-”

Tim gives it a rough shake, and it shuts up. He pushes open the door to Document Storage, and it slams off the shelves, but he’s moving too fast, pulling the copy behind him, shoving it forward at where Sasha and Martin are crouched over the eyeless, shaking form of his boss. 

“There,” he snarls at it, pressing forward. “You fucking wanker, there’s your fucking proof. Explain _that._ ”

There’s a moment where Sasha and Martin stare at the thing, open-mouthed, and the thing stares at Jon, ashen-faced.

“I...” it starts, trailing off. It’s eyes flick over Jon’s wounds, the scars, all the things it did to him. glancing at Sasha, “What _is_ that?” Tim pulls back a fist, and it yelps, scrambling backwards against the shelves. 

“Whoa,” Sasha says, straightening to her full height, hands out. “Everyone calm down.”

“That’s Jon,” Tim spits. “You already fucking know that-” 

“But I’m Jon,” the thing says, shaken. 

“Then who’s that?” he yells, pointing. “Your fucking secret twin?”

“Hey-” Sasha starts, but the thing cuts her off, throwing it’s arms up.

“I don’t know!” the thing snaps. “It’s- a fake, it has to be, there aren’t any Leitners-”

“Stop _lying!_ ” Tim steps forward so he’s looming again, in the thing’s personal space, “You took him and _hurt_ him,” Tim realises his voice is starting to shake, but he presses on, “and-and you were going to take _us,_ take our _skin_ , that’s what things like you _do_ -”

“What are you _talking_ about-”

“Shut up!” Sasha yells, louder than both of them combined. Tim’s chest is heaving. The thing is still ashen, it’s teeth bared. They glare at each other.

“OK.” Sasha says, through gritted teeth. “OK, _what the fuck._ Tim. Just- You go first. I tell you to call an ambulance and- What the fuck?” 

“I found this _thing_ in Jon’s office, pretending to be him.” Tim says, his lip curling. He doesn’t break eye contact with it. “It’s what they do. They pretend to be people, and they skin them, and they- You’ve read the statements, these things _hurt_ people.”

“Stranger,” mutters the wounded Jon, propped up against the wall. “Interesting.”

Sasha shushes him without looking. She turns to the thing. “You next. Same question. What the fuck?” 

“I don’t _know_ ,” the thing shouts, voice loud and panicked. “I’m- It’s _me_ , it’s _Jon_ , I’m not a monster, I’m your _boss_. I was just- in my office, like I have been all afternoon _,_ and then Tim came in and- attacked me! And now there’s my-my _doppelgänger_ in Document Storage, for some reason!”

Sasha’s eyes narrow. “What did you assign me yesterday?” she asks. 

“I- I told you to look up the students, the disappearances in- in- you know, the street, in Edinburgh, with the thing that ate people by asking for cigarettes,” the thing says, rambling. It doesn’t even know the street name. Tim snorts at the obvious lie. The thing glares at him. 

“The, um, Old Fishmarket Close?” Martin offers from where he’s crouched over, and Tim wants to kick him for giving the thing evidence.

“Yes,” the thing says viciously, without looking away from Tim. “That one.”

Sasha relaxes. “Yeah,” she says, “Interesting case.”

“Oh c’mon-” Tim starts, ready to blow the holes in the things story wide open. The thing opens it’s mouth, teeth flashing.

“The Anglerfish?” The wounded Jon asks, frowning to himself. His voice is hoarse.

The thing jolts, breaks Tim’s gaze. It stares at the wounded Jon instead, wide-eyed. “I… I only call it that in my head,” it says. “How did you...” It trails off. 

Sasha blows her breath out of her mouth. She nods to herself. “Well, looks like we’ve got a two for one deal on Jon Sims today.” she says.

“Bullshit,” Tim snarls, tilting his head down like a bull. “It’s lying to you Sash, it wants to hurt-”

Sasha rounds on Tim, fixing him with her _you’re-being-stupid_ glare. “Stop.” Sasha says, ice dropping into her tone. “Just- Stop, Tim. The way I see it, the only one here who wants to hurt anyone is _you.”_

Tim gapes at her. “But, it’s-”

“Where’s your evidence?” Sasha asks him, crisp. Tim blinks, because- it’s _obvious,_ isn’t it- the evidence is... is... Sasha lifts her eyebrow. “Thought as much. Sure, it’s _possible_ it’s all an act, but- you ever heard of Occam’s Razor? No need to overcomplicate things with lying and acting and- double agents, unless there’s some evidence that those things actually exist.”

Tim feels blindsided. “But-”

“Did you call 999?” Sasha asks. “Because this Jon,” She sweeps a hand out beside her, pointing it at the cot, “needs medical attention.”

“This stuff is dangerous, Sasha,” Tim says, scrambling. “It’s not a- It could-”

Sasha steps closer, and her tone softens. “Yeah. It can be dangerous. People can get hurt. Someone has been hurt, and he needs an ambulance.” She looks him in the eye, gaze steady. “Go call an ambulance. And, once this is sorted, we’re going to have a talk about why you jumped straight to skin stealing spies. Alright?” 

Tim looks at Sasha, helplessly. 

“Trust me, Tim.” she says. “Ambulance. I’ll figure this out.”

“Fine,” he says, turning away. “I- Fine.” He stops, at the end of the aisle, turns back. “Just-” he tells them, calling back. “Don’t- Don’t get hurt.” His voice cracks, on that last word. 

Sasha meets his eye, and nods, smiling tightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...ok i TRIED to get them to actually work stuff out but TIM wanted to be all SHOUTY so he gets this chapter ig. as a treat. then he gets to go work through some stuff in the corner for a while. 
> 
> past!jon in this chapter is the i n c a r n a t i o n of the 'i just came out to read statements and im feeling so attacked right now' meme. he just. wants to do general archiving.


	3. and im on my knees (and the water creeps to my chest)

The door closes behind Tim. Sasha lets her eyes fall shut for a brief moment, before snapping them open again. “Alright,” she says. She turns neatly on her heel, facing the guy with bandages wrapped around his face. “Let’s figure this out. First question. Are you Jonathan Sims?”

Behind her, Jon splutters. “ _I’m_ Jonathan Sims,” he says, “We _just_ had this-”

Sasha glances back at him. “I get that. You’re Jon, our boss. We established that. I’m asking if he is also Jon.”

“That doesn’t make _sense,”_ Jon says, gearing up for a fight.

“Exactly what about this situation _does_ make sense?” Sasha snaps. She closes her eyes, takes a breath. The others have probably never seen anything like this before. Not everyone gets the trial-by-fire of an Artefact Storage posting. They don’t get it. “Obviously, something supernatural has happened,” she explains tightly. “We need to figure out what, and how, before anyone else gets hurt. Now,” She turns to the bandaged man, reaching out to grip his shoulder and shake. “Are you Jon?” she asks roughly[SG1] . He looks like Jon, has the facial structure and skin colour and- everything. But he’s so thin. And the details are wrong, the clothes, the scars, the hair. She’s not going to think of him as Jon until he proves it. “Who are you?”

The bandaged man winces at the motion, pulling back weakly, and she lets go. He looks up at her. Or, well, his head lolls back. The twin spots of red soaking through his bandages are pointing roughly at her face, but… well. His forehead furrows. “Archivist.” he mutters. His tongue trips over the three syllables, muddling them.

“Yes,” Sasha says, “Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. Ring any bells?”

“’S me,” the bandaged guy mutters. “Jonathan Sims, the Archivist,” he says suddenly, word perfect and _bitter._ It’s more unnerving than the slurring.

Jon steps up beside Sasha, eyes locked onto his double. “Prove it,” he snaps, coiled like a leash.

The bandaged guy’s forehead wrinkles. “How?” he asks.

Jon’s head tilts, locked on target. “What’s something only Jonathan Sims would know?”

The bandaged guy lets his head fall back against the wall. He’s silent for a couple long seconds, then suddenly- “Alex Reeds,” he says. “Knew that- Got it back. Other day.”

Jon frowns. His eyes flick up and towards his left. Searching through memory. Not a name he recognises, then. “Who’s that?” Sasha asks the bandaged guy.

“Took the book,” The bandaged guy says, voice faint.

Jon’s eyes go wide. “The- The bully? The one who- With the Leitner, when I was eight?”

“Wait, you- A Leitner? When you were eight?” Martin says, scrabbling to his feet. Sasha had honestly forgotten he was down there. So had Jon, by the way he jumps.

“Watched,” The bandaged guy gets out, voice small. Jon flinches at the word, whole body stiffening.

“God, we all need therapy,” Sasha mutters. “So, he knows about something in your past. That’s proof?”

“Yes,” Jon says tightly.

“Good,” Sasha says. She turns back to the bandaged guy. The other Jon. They’ll have to come up with something to call him. Job for later. For now… Other Jon works she guesses, but maybe Coraline references are a little too on-the-nose, given, well. “Can you tell us about your eyes?” Sasha asks him. “Why did you…” She searches for a phrase. “Take them out?”

Other Jon lifts a hand, bloody fingers finding the edge of the bandages. He traces the cloth, a tremor running down his hands. “Only way to stop,” he says.

“Stop what?” Sasha asks.

“Reading,” Other Jon says, and his voice cracks. He’s trembling even more, whole body shaking, curling in on himself.

“He was saying something about a statement,” Martin says. He looks at the papers still littering the floor. “Maybe-”

“We’ll burn them.” Sasha says. “Only way to be-”

Other Jon shakes his head, frantic. “No,” he says, reaching out, grabbing for Sasha. “No don’t- It’s not- Left it, not here, don’t burn-”

“Where did you leave it?” Sasha asks, letting him clutch her arm. His fingers leave dark streaks against the white sleeve of her blouse. Other Jon doesn’t show any signs of hearing her, still telling her not to burn anything.

“The wounds are fresh,” Jon mutters, warily looking over the stacks of boxes surrounding them. “It’ll be down here, somewhere.”

Sasha acknowledges him with a nod. She bends down, getting closer to Other Jon. “Tell me where you left the statement,” she says, firm.

Other Jon croaks, “On, on the table. In- the safehouse. Scotland.”

“Scotland?” Jon says, incredulous.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Sasha says, frowning. “Are you sure-”

Other Jon stiffens, suddenly, all over. “Martin.” he says urgently, hands fluttering, trying to push himself up. He fails, elbows shaking wildly under his weight, dumping him back onto the cot. “Martin- Left, left him- Not safe-”

“Whoa,” Sasha says, steadying him.

“Martin’s not in _Scotland_ ,” Jon says, nose wrinkling. “Martin’s here.” He looks over his shoulder at Martin, checking.

Martin bites his lip, shrugging. “I haven’t- Never even been north of Manchester,” he says. “I don’t-“

Other Jon reaches out, searching. “Martin?” he asks, plaintive.

Martin steps forward, hovering. “I’m- I’m here?” he says. His hand flits out, fingers brushing against Other Jon’s palm.

Other Jon turns like a flower to the sun, hand flashing out to grab Martin’s wrist. “Safe?” he asks, letting go of Sasha to devote both hands to running carefully over Martin’s hand and wrist and forearm. “Not hurt?”

“I’m fine, I…” Martin trails off. He glances at Jon, face falling when he sees the dark glare Jon is aiming at the tangle of hands. “He was doing this earlier as well, I don’t…”

Jon turns to Sasha. “He’s clearly out of his mind,” he says, not noticing Martin’s wince. “Nothing he says- He’s not making sense.”

“What other sources of information do we have?,” Sasha asks, rubbing her forehead. “If there’s an artefact loose, we need to-“

The door opens, and Tim stalks in. His eyes flash over all of them, checking for damage. “Ambulance is outside. Paramedics won’t enter the building,” he says, curt. “Policy. We need to get him up there ourselves.”

“He needs medical attention,” Jon decides. “Rest of the questions can wait.”

“That statement could be _anywhere_ ,” Sasha protests. “If it’s even a statement! We need to-”

“Just- Don’t read anything, then,” Jon snaps. “We’ll lock the Archives, and sort it out on Monday.”

“Don’t read anything,” Sasha repeats flatly, anger simmering in her chest. “If we _wait-“_

“C’mon,” Tim says to Other Jon, ignoring the rest of them. He pulls one of Other Jon’s arms from Martin, hooking it around his own neck. He slides his arms under Other Jon’s back and thighs, lifting him easily. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Other Jon grunts in pain at the movement, grip tightening around Tim’s neck. He doesn’t let go of Martin’s wrist, clutching on like it’s a lifeline, so Martin awkwardly trails Tim, wrist held forward. Jon lets his dark eyes linger on Sasha for a second more, then follows them out. “I’m locking it behind me,” he calls behind him.

Sasha closes her eyes, pushing the urge to scream back down under her ribs. Then she throws her hands up, and walks away, leaving the possibly-supernatural definitely-creepy shelves and shelves of other people’s terror behind her.

* * *

The spinning blue lights flash across the face of the Head of the Magnus Institute. He stands atop the balcony overlooking the marble foyer, hands loosely gripping the rail. Many of his employees, nosy parkers one and all, are milling about on the lobby floor, disrupted from their work. The paramedics stand just outside the heavy double doors, arguing. One is pulling the other back, shaking their head.

A figure catches his eye, and the Head of the Magnus Institute straightens, gaze sharpening. Timothy Stoker, cuts through the crowd, expression grave. He carries the limp form of the Archivist.

The Archivist is a game piece of importance. If he has been damaged this early, it could be... A rise in the volume of whispers draws the Head of the Magnus Institute’s gaze away, to find the Archivist walking through the crowd, shoulders hunched.

The Head of the Magnus Institute leans forward, slightly over the rail. Intriguing. Doppelgangers fall within the Stranger’s purview, of course, but instinct tells him there is more to be uncovered.

The paramedics leap into action, checking the pulse and breathing of the limp figure, transferring him to a stretcher, then inside the ambulance. The Head of the Magnus Institute calls on the abilities granted to him by his patron, peeking through the eyes of the paramedic unravelling bloodied bandages from around a familiar face. And then there is the matter of the wounds themselves. His experience in such matters lets him tell quickly that these are self-inflicted by a desperate hand. That speaks to knowledge. Knowledge his current Archivist should not have.

He thinks on the issue for some time, turning over strategies, the phrasing of subtle probes he will deploy, the likely reactions of allies and foes. The game is complex. The ambulance drives away, and eventually the lobby clears. From above, the rings of white and black marble embedded in the floor come together into a familiar shape.

As Jonah Magnus stares down at the gigantic eye, a piece of _very_ interesting information slips into his mind. A smile creeps onto his face, spilling over his cheeks until he’s grinning viciously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....ok so i TRIED to make them actually work out that it's time travel but... yeah. no. it didn't happen. sasha tried her best yall. 
> 
> at least they fucking finally got out of document storage lol.


	4. confess your love, your love as well as your folly

An impossible door creaks open into the safehouse, but Martin doesn’t look up. 

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, Jon’s cane propped across his knees. His fingers trail over the metal, his thumb catching on the stud on the side, where the cane collapses. It was propped against the side of the chair, when he came back from his walk. Jon’s distance glasses are neatly folded beside the salt and pepper shakers. His reading ones are on the floor, lenses shattered, one of the arms bending the wrong way. There are three sheets of neat copperplate handwriting laid out on the table. One is ripped almost in two. All are splattered with blood. 

Jon isn’t here. Isn’t anywhere.

Cold air prickles at the back of Martin’s neck, soothing. He can smell brine, salty over the iron tang of the blood. The haar is rising, damp mist twining through the open front door, curling around his ankles.

There’s a soft click of heels against the lino. Helen walks to the counter, props her hip against it. The patterns on her blazer and skirt shift into each other, pinstripes branching into fractals, twining over each other. Her hair is wild, natural coils twisting into and over and around. Her eyes are soft, deep brown, for now. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t look at him, but off into the distance, almost bored.

“Do you know where he is?” Martin asks her. His voice is flat and toneless. 

“The Archivist? No.” she says. Her fingernails drum against the counter, a sharp _ratatatat_. 

“Go away, then,” Martin tells her, rude. He looks back down at his lap. 

She drums her fingers against the counter again. That same sound, ever so slightly out of time. _Ratatatat._ “I felt a door trying to open,” she says. “Doors are mine.”

The mist swirls. She’s not going to go away, Martin knows. Not until she gets whatever she’s here for. “That one belonged to Jonah Magnus, apparently,” Martin tells her. He expects to spit the name, fill it with loathing, but it comes out mild. Placid. 

Helen’s lip curls.“Did it?” 

“He wanted to bring all of the entities through it,” Martin says, hands tightening around the cane. “He was playing us all along, all of it was for this. This ritual.” Martin bares his teeth, not quite a smile. “He failed, though. All his _theories_ , his _planning,_ his- Jon stopped him.”

“Hm.” _Ratatatat._ It’s really annoying, actually, that sound. Martin sends Helen a sharp glare. Her eyes are a very light blue. She inspects the torn wood of the countertop, pouting. “Your Archivist did _something_ , that is certain,” she says, eyes flicking up. “The door was forming, but it was incomplete. Disrupted. Your Archivist should have _been_ the door. He shouldn’t have fallen through it.”

Martin narrows his eyes. “What do you know?” he asks. He grabs the cane more firmly, stands. THe chair skitters backwards, legs dragging. “Where did- Is he OK? Where _is_ he?”

“I don’t know, Assistant,” she says, irritated. She looks up at the ceiling, purple eyes narrowed at it. Martin looks up too, but it’s just, well, the ceiling. No sign of any portal, or mouth, or- anything. “There was a door. Your Archivist fell through. Now, he is lost.”

“Doors are yours, though,” Martin says, snapping back to her, eyes narrowing. “Your realm, your corridors- You can open a door wherever you like. You could make one for Jon. So he can get back.” 

“I do not know where your Archivist is,” Helen snaps. “Even if I _would_ do such a thing, I cannot. He is _lost_.”

Martin rubs at his head. “He- his rib, he left it, can you- an anchor, like how he got out of-”

Helen scoffs, rolls her lurid yellow eyes. “When has your Archivist cared for his own flesh? His rib is useless. He could not find it within Choke. It will not find him now.”

Martin stares at the cane. “What about something else, though? Something he- something connected to him. Something that _cares,_ something that would find him. That he could find, and use to- latch on to. An anchor point. That would get him home.” 

“Perhaps. If such a thing exists,” Helen says, doubtful. 

“Something that...” Martin says, trailing off. He’s remembering a cold, deserted beach, damp sand reflecting the blank white sky. A hand on his cheek, the back of his neck, warm, tugging his face down. _Look at me._ A hand wrapped tightly around his, nails a little too long, digging into the side of his palm. Grounding him. Bringing him back. “He found me,” Martin says. “He’s my anchor, he’s that for me.” Martin looks up at her, shrewd. “Could you use that?” 

Helen’s face splits open into a grin, curling eyelashes fluttering over neon orange pupils. “Adorable,” she says. 

Martin ignores her. “If I go into your corridors, get outside of reality, then just- follow the connection. Find my way to him.”

Helen freezes. Her smile locks in place, even the patterns on her blazer pausing in their constant motion. “You wish to walk my corridors?” she asks softly.

“If I do, If I- I could get back to Jon.” Martin’s cheeks hurt, and he realises he’s grinning. It’s not a nice grin. “Find where he is, get him, and bring him back.”

“Many things can become true, in It Is Not What It Is,” Helen tells him. Her eyes are a flat, even black. A shark's eyes. 

“Well, then this is bound to work,” Martin says. He adjusts his grip on Jon’s cane, carrying it like a weapon. Jon will need it, if Martin finds him. No, when. When Martin finds him. “It will become true, it- it’ll work.” 

“Would you like a door?” Helen asks.

“Yes,” Martin says firmly. “Yes, I would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> martin: *orpheus voice* WAIT FOR ME, I'M COMING
> 
> i've had this chapter written for SO LONG guys!! he's on his way! future!martin, battling through the spiral for his love! 
> 
> next chap we go back to future!jon in hospital. but! marto's coming!! they WILL be reunited!
> 
> also helen is very fun to write. we stan the throat of delusion incarnate.


	5. spare me your judgements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one is a little late!

The first time Jon wakes up, he can barely think past the pain.

 _Fuck,_ his head hurts. It’s a throbbing, sharp pain right behind his eyes, and he groans, curling up on himself. 

The background noise changes. There’s something beeping. It sounds like- a hospital? Is he in a hospital?

Jon tries to open his eyes, look around, but the pain spikes, nails driving into his head, and a whimper falls out of his mouth. Sound. 

Voices. Over him, around him. Doctors? If he’s in a hospital there would be doctors. Shit, his ribs, his- He’ll need to- Or, no, he can’t, he’s rubbish at lying, he needs- Martin. 

A jolt of adrenaline runs through him, and he shifts, trying to prop up onto his elbows. There was something- Martin was in danger, because of- 

Statement of Jonah Magnus, regarding Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. 

He sits bolt upright, pushing through the fogginess. He remembers- Clawing at his throat, his lips, but the iron tang of blood on his tongue didn’t stop it moving. Pushing his glasses away, but when everything else went blurred the words on the page were still crystal clear. Pressing his hands over his eyes, but he still Knew what to say, couldn’t stop. His fingers digging in, pressing, desperate, until-

Jon lifts his hands to his face, feeling frantically- gauze. Thickly padded bandages. He grunts, finding the edge, trying to get it _off,_ but a hand grabs his, pulling down. A hand he knows.

Someone is saying his name. Jon turns his head to that side. 

“Jon?” a familiar voice is saying. Something in him relaxes. Martin. “-hear us?”

“Mmmnh,” Jon says. His mouth doesn’t really want to work with him right now. He can feel his head going fuzzy. Fuzzier. Sedatives, he Knows, the chemical composition dropping into his head.. He closes his hand around Martin’s, gripping tightly.

Then he drifts away. 

The second time he wakes up, the pain is dulled. It’s still there, of course, but it feels... less like his brain is filled with razor wire. His eyes throb. There’s something itching in his arm. 

He reaches over to it, feeling the thin tube, the tape holding the needle in place. An IV. A- blood transfusion, maybe. He can’t tell what colour it is. It could be- a sedative, or nutrients, or- anything. Poison. 

“Oh, that’s just something for the pain,” a woman’s voice says, and Jon jerks away, the tube snapping taut, tape ripping off with a sharp pinch. “Sorry love, didn’t mean to shock you,” the woman continues. Scottish accent, unsurprisingly. But- how did he get here? What is- He can’t trust this place.

“Who are you?” Jon asks, compulsion fizzing on his tongue. 

“Abigail Docherty, trauma nurse,” she tells him, and he knows it’s true. “Call me Abby.” Her hands are on his arm, doing something to the IV. Putting it back in place. Hospital, then. That- makes sense, given, well. Given that he’s injured. He would be taken to a hospital. The nurse gives his arm a pat, pulling away. “Now. You seem a bit more together. How are you feeling? Any pain?”

Jon hesitates. He’s still not sure- but, he’d chosen to trust, hadn’t he? And- it makes sense. “Less pain,” he tells her, “I can feel it, but it’s not- Not as bad.”

“That’s good. Now, I’ll be managing you, mostly. I’m normally down in A&E, but, well. Only a couple of us have the experience to take on a case. That Magnus lot has sent a couple of patients our way, and it’s always. Well. Unusual. I’ll let that lovely young man you’ve got waiting for you know you’re up, alright?”

“Young man?” Jon echoes, perking up.

“Aye, big ginger lad. Was another one, too, but he left a while back, hopefully to go sleep in his own bed.”

“Martin,” Jon says, feeling his shoulders relax. “Can you- I’d like to see him.” He’d like to know why Martin told the nurse about the Magnus Institute, too, and who the _other one_ is, but. Mostly he just wants to see Martin. 

Well. Not _see._ Not anymore. 

“Of course,” the nurse says, “I’ll grab him for you, won’t be a minute.” She doesn’t wait for an answer. The door swings open, and footsteps click along the corridor outside.

Jon pushes himself up in the bed. He remembers- Well. It’s all a bit of a wash of pain, after the statement. Martin was there, maybe. He’d said he was going for a walk, but maybe he came back, and found Jon, and took him to a hospital. He remembers being carried, a little, arms and motion. That makes sense. 

Jon pauses. He remembers- Martin framed in the door, eyes crinkled with laughter, sun catching in his- white hair. Martin’s hair turned white, the Lonely leaving it’s mark. He was self-conscious, pulled a knit beanie over it whenever he went into town, but it was white. Not ginger anymore. So why would the nurse say _-_

The door opens. “Hi,” Martin’s voice says. “Um. I hope you’re feeling better.”

“I’m just fine, thank you,” Jon says crisply, folding his arms. “Who are you, and what have you done to Martin?”

“I am Martin,” Martin’s voice says. “Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute. I, uh. I haven’t done anything? To myself?”

Martin hasn’t called himself an Archival Assistant in a long time. But- Jon can feel the compulsion working, the thrum of new informationrunning down his spine. Everything Martin is saying is true. “Why are you calling yourself that?” he asks, frowning. 

“Um. It’s my job? I’m not sure why I said it like that, really, it just kinda came out.” Martin says, _hesitant._ Like he hasn’t been since- since _years_ ago. His voice is right, it’s his, but the tone is _wrong._

“What _happened?”_ Jon asks him plainly.

“I’m not sure,” Martin says. “I don’t know a lot- I was hoping to ask you, actually.” 

“What _do_ you know?” Jon asks, forcing himself to be patient. 

“Um. We’re in Chelsea and Westminster Hospital,” Martin says. Fabric rustles, probably him shifting position. Fidgeting. He’s anxious. “You were, um. You were hurt.”

“Yes,” Jon says. “I remember some of that.” Underneath the drugs, his eyes throb, but he pushes the pain down, focuses. Why the _hell_ are they back in _Chelsea?_

“Oh good,” Martin says, relieved, then immediately “Oh, not that it’s good, I’m sorry you have to remember that, it must’ve been-”

“It’s fine,” Jon says, an old stab of annoyance twisting in his chest. “Please tell me why we’re in _Chelsea_.” 

“Well,” Martin says, “Um. We found you in Document Storage? And, then, this was the nearest hospital, and-”

Jon frowns. “You- I was in the Archives?”

“Yeah, you just kinda. Turned up. There. With- with your eyes all, um. Messed up. We were working, and Tim and me found you, and-”

“Tim?” Jon says incredulously. 

“Yeah, he’s- he works with me. In the Archives.”

“I know who Tim is,” Jon snaps, “But that’s _impossible_ , that can’t-” and then the Knowledge hits him. 

The date the nurse is writing in as she updates his paperwork is the 15 of August, 2015. 

“What,” Jon says slowly. He stops. Licks his lips. Starts again. “What’s the date today?” he asks, and it comes out low and pleading. 

“The 14th,” Martin says, “Or, no, it’s past midnight now, isn’t it? 15th, then.”

“What _year?”_ Jon presses, fingers clenching in the sheets. 

Martin doesn’t reply for a moment. “2015,” he says, tone rising at the end, questioning. 

“Fuck,” Jon breathes. That’s- 20 _15_. Three years, that’s- he’d just started as Head Archivist, hadn’t he. He hadn’t known _anything-_ Tim. Tim was alive, hell, _Sasha_ was probably still alive. And- Martin-

“Why did you need to know that? _”_ Martin asks him, “What- Why did you need to know that?”

“You don’t remember,” Jon says, his head stuck on the thought. “You don’t- You’re not my Martin.” 

“Um,” The young Martin says, just like Martin _used to-_ “I don’t know what you mean. Is- Is there another me?” 

Jon takes a deep breath. He needs to get out of this, needs to get _back_. “This morning,” Jon says, because even if this Martin isn’t his, he’s still _Martin_ , “It was 2018.”

Martin doesn’t say anything, for a moment. Then he says, “You’re from the future.”

Jon wrinkles his nose. “From one perspective,” he says. 

“Oh my _god,”_ Martin says, excitement bubbling over into his voice “What happens in the future? What- Oh, do you remember any lottery numbers? How did you- Are there _time machines_? ”

“No time machines,” Jon says. “I don’t think so. It’s- I didn’t… do this, travel through time, it wasn’ton purpose.” 

Martin’s chair creaks, his weight shifting in it. “Well, it’s- can you do it again?”

“I just- just need to figure out how,” Jon says. 

“We’ll- I’ll help!” Martin says, so eager, god. Jon had forgotten he used to be like this. “Time travel, god- I want to see the future.” 

“Wait a couple years,” Jon tells him, smiling. “Then you’ll…” Jon trails off. Martin will… Lose his mother. Lose Tim. Lose himself. The smile fades from Jon’s face. 

But- Martin hasn’t lost those things yet, he thinks. Not here. He could- he could stop it, couldn’t he? Warn them. 

But, well. He’s seen Back To The Future. What would happen, if he changed things here? Now? Would it change _him?_ What about Martin, his Martin, waiting for him? Would he still be waiting? 

Jon shakes his head, trying to clear it. He can’t _think._ The motion jostles his dressings, and a fresh swell of pain crashes against the fuzziness of the painkillers, making him grimace. He just needs to get back, as soon as he can. “I need to-” he starts. Then stops. What’s the first step, here?

“You should probably rest,” Martin says at the same time, rushed. “Um, you’ve got a little- There’s some blood, on your, um.”

“If you’re gesturing, I can’t see it,” Jon tells him. He’s tired. He’s very tired, but- he needs to get back to his Martin. 

“I’ll just-” Martin says, and a tissue brushes gently against Jon’s cheek, moving up to the edge of his dressing. “There. That’s better.”

“I…” Jon tries to speak, but his mouth is dry. The fuzziness is mounting, now.

“How about,” Martin says, and there’s a hint of firmness in his voice. “You go to sleep, and I text the others, and we all have a chat about this in the morning?”

“...OK” Jon says, because his focus is rapidly falling away from him, and when Martin gets stuck on an idea he’s as stubborn as a bull. 

“Alright,” Martin says, and he stands up. “Goodnight, Jon.”

Jon says “Goodnight,” back, he thinks. But, really- he’s already lying down, and the mattress isn’t very comfortable really but it’s soft enough to cradle his body, and- he’s already drifting off. Again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE WORDS 'TIME TRAVEL' WERE SAID! WE DID IT! WE GOT THERE! future!jon's pov is fun, except i can't describe other people's facial expressions >:( 
> 
> sorry for the short delay on this one, i try to get these out one every two weeks on fridays, but this week was busy! 
> 
> and, in other news i posted [another fic!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26561263) if you want an exploration of jon and tim's friendship through jon being turned into a child, go check it out! im actually happy with the way it turned out. kid!jon bites basira. it's great.


	6. spare me your dreams

Jon has not been sleeping. He’s been researching. 

Doppelgangers are common in myth. The Egyptian _ka,_ the Scandinavian _Vardøger,_ many cultures from across the globe have the idea of- a double. A clone. The more recent accounts, Victorian and onward, all seem to lead to death. Either in the family, or of the victim, the person doubled. 

Jon’s family are all already dead. 

A few of the Victorian accounts, and almost all of the modern ones, can be discounted- the effects of tiredness, or illness, or those hoping to get rich quick. The doppelgangers are very rarely tangible, only seen by one person, and tend to stick around only for seconds. 

Jon’s doppelganger is tangible. He hadn’t even been the first to see it. And, well, it was sticking around long enough to be checked into the hospital. 

Would it stick around until he died? Was it planning to- kill him, and take his place? 

It was a threat. It has to be, things that just _appear_ don’t end well. It’s also wounded, and delirious, and in a hospital bed, with Martin as a guard. Jon squinted at his whiteboard, chewing on the end of a pen. Maybe it appeared with the wounds it would inflict on him? A kind of- reverse Dorian Grey, healing itself as it hurt him, until he was seen as the imposter, and it the victim? Or maybe it’s wounds are a ploy, a way to make the others accept it. But- He’s reaching. He knows he’s reaching. None of his theories make _sense._

And none of them account for- How in the world had it known about the book? That name- Alex Reeds. He’d done a Google search, turned up a missing persons report. Flinched at the photograph. He hadn’t realised he’d forgotten the name of the boy he watched die. This thing was claiming to _be_ him, to have his memories, how would it know something he’d forgotten?

His phone buzzes on the coffee table. Jon snatches it up. A text, from Martin. A long text. 

_hi everyone!_ It starts. _Jon woke up! the one in hospital, not normal Jon. he says he’s from the future!!!! and he really hates chelsea for some reason? not sure why. he said hed explain more in the morning, hes pretty shattered. because of all his injuries. one of the nurses was asking me something about his ribs? normal Jon do you have all your ribs? also are you allergic to anything? they were asking me that and i didnt know. anyway, i thought we should all meet up back at the hospital in the morning and let future Jon (!!!) explain things. does 9 work for you guys? -martin_

“What,” Jon says aloud. He reads the text again, scanning the words. They don’t change. 

Another notification pops up, the same group. _wtf,_ Tim has sent. _omw back over_

 _I do not have any allergies I am aware of. Last I checked, all my ribs were present and accounted for,_ Jon taps out, thumbs working across his phone. _Does the doppelganger have any evidence that it is in fact a “future version” of me?_

 _Tim you should sleep! Dw ive got this_ Martin replies, a second or two after Jon’s message. His typing bubble pops up, and after it’s followed by _thanks, Jon, ill tell the drs._

No answer to his enquiry about evidence. Jon frowns.

_omw,_ Tim repeats. 

_Martin, you can’t just believe whatever that thing tells you,_ Jon sends, his lips pursed. 

Martin doesn’t reply. 

After five minutes, Jon rolls his eyes, tossing his phone back onto the coffee table. He has work to do. 

He pulls his laptop closer. Clicks on the Google search bar. _Time Travel,_ he types, and hits Enter.

****

The Piccadilly Line runs all night on Fridays and Saturdays. Tim slumps into his seat, legs kicked out, hood up. 

There’s a group of twenty-somethings down the carriage, drunk, exhausted, trying not to be loud. One man in a suit, focussed entirely on his phone. 

The train’s brakes screech, high and loud. Tim lets his body sway, armrest digging into his side as the train wheezes to a stop. He glances outside, reads off the station name. Three more stops. 

The doors hiss open. The platform is empty.

Tim lets his eyes fall closed. He has his headphones in, but nothing playing. He’s not in the mood for music. 

A couple of the twenty-somethings start singing. The businessman’s lip curls. 

Tim slips down in his seat, stretching his legs across the carriage until his feet bump against the base of the seat opposite. 

So. Time travel. 

The doors of the carriage shut, and the train starts moving again, a dull roar of sound. 

_“Gotta leave it all behind and face the truth,”_ someone sings, horribly out of tune. 

Tim’s watched enough science fiction to know the basics. Paradoxes. Fixed events. The butterfly effect. 

Things that have happened can’t be changed. Otherwise, he wouldn’t remember them. 

He remembers what happened to Danny. He saw it, and the image was burned into the back of his eyelids, and he sees it over and over when he’s awake at 5AM and staring at the ceiling and _hating._

The train groans to a halt, jolting. The businessman stands, shooting a glare at the twenty-somethings, and is out of the doors before they finish opening. Two more stops. 

Tim should probably apologise to Jon. Normal Jon, his boss, the one who he shouted at and tossed around. Sasha had a word with him, when they were all hanging around outside the hospital, about _logic,_ and _jumping to conclusions_ and _letting her handle things._

He trusts Sasha, he does. She’s whip-smart, and brave, and not afraid to get her hands dirty. But. This kind of thing, the real stuff? You don’t _handle_ it. From what he can tell, the best treatment is either staying the fuck away, or killing it _dead._

But this time, the supernatural element is in a hospital bed, covered in scars and blood and horror. To him, that looks more like a _victim_ than a _threat._ He doesn’t know where the threat is. He’s not naive enough to believe there isn’t one.

 _“Never, never, never, never let you go,”_ the kids shout, out of time with each other and laughing. 

Another stop, and this time there’s someone on the platform. A dark-skinned woman, in an expensive coat. The doors open, and Tim pushes up in his seat, curling his legs out of her way. There are tears shining on her cheeks. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly, clutching her bag. She sits down, across from him, and looks at the floor. The doors hiss closed. 

Tim looks at her. “Are you alright?” he asks softly. The train begins to move again. 

She glances up at him for a second. Her eyes are red at the corners. “I’m fine,” she says, shaky. “Thank you.” 

Tim presses his lips together. The twenty-somethings yell, _“So you think you could love me and leave me to die!”,_ and the tube roars, and the woman shrinks into her seat at the sound. 

The train bends around a corner. Tim rocks with it, pushing to his feet. One of the hanging straps almost brains him. He walks a couple of paces down the carriage, towards the twenty-somethings. 

They spot him coming, and one of them- a boy, t-shirt with a band logo, ring in his nose- shushes the others. They quiet down. 

Tim puts on a smile. “Having a good night?” he asks them. It comes out with a charming, cheerful, but-off. Forced. A tone he hasn’t used in a long time. 

One girl is swaying off the pole in the centre of the carriage. She has bright eyeshadow smeared over her cheek. “Yes!” she says loudly, grinning. The boy with the ring in his nose winces. 

“Nice,” Tim says, bracing himself as the train slows down. His stop. “Mind, y’know, keeping the noise down?”

The girl’s smile fades. The boy winces, swaying as the train jerks to a stop. “Sorry,” he says, “Um, We’ll try not to. Be loud.” 

“Give it your best shot,” Tim says, calmly, still with that _bite_ underneath. The doors hiss open. He gives them another tight smile, flashing his teeth, and turns to the doors, stepping off the train.

The breeze of the train pulling away from the platform ruffles his hair. He doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lil bit of a cool-down chap. give these boys a chance to process some stuff. instead of sleeping. which is what they should be doing. (also the night tube is just. a good setting. tim ily for letting me write something set on the night tube) 
> 
> sasha is not in this chap because she is fast asleep, as she should be.
> 
> ok outside-of-fic note: my irl life is getting a lil bit complicated (i might have covid?) and i also may have been neglecting my tma big bang fic, so updates for this one might be coming through a little bit slower! than the... already glacial pace... but tbh i am HELLA looking forward to writing the explanation scene, so! who knows what could happen! not me! not you! not anyone in the world!
> 
> im sorry guys it's been a long fortnight. im just going to sign off here, hope you liked the chap!


	7. recently mine have been tearing my seams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ok, so, ik it has been a Hot Minute since i updated this, but i suddenly had some free time and figured- why not? what the hell? let's get back on this clown car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those who don't want to reread the whole fic just bc it updated:   
> currently, future!jon is in hospital, being treated for Eye Gouging. he still has the abilities of the Archivist. martin has had a conversation with future!jon in the middle of the night, where it was revealed that future!jon is from the future (2018). he messaged the others, telling them this, and asking them to come to the hospital in the morning to talk with future!jon. past!jon has been spending the night in a full on pepe-silvia style research binge about doppelgangers. tim came to the hospital immediately upon hearing this news, and is protective of future!jon, because he is wounded and looks sad. sasha spent the night sleeping, because she is sensible.

Sasha walks into the hospital at 8:30 sharp. She has a fresh A5 notebook, several pens in varying colours, a cool swishy skirt, and a hell of a lot of determination. 

“Here to visit Jonathan Sims,” she tells the receptionist, flashing her winning smile. She gets a visitor badge and directions she already knows. 

There had been some debate about what name to fill in on the forms. Sasha had bullied Jon around into filling out his own details, mostly by way of pointing out that they didn’t exactly have anything else to put in. 

Martin and Tim are slouched on the chairs in the corridor outside Other Jon’s room. Martin is fast asleep, drooling onto Tim’s shoulder. Tim is staring straight ahead, through the window into the room. His eyes are bloodshot. 

Through the window, Other Jon is still. He looks very small, surrounded by machines, drowning in the pressed white sheets. His face is still bandaged, but the bandages are white and clean. 

Tim looks up as Sasha approaches. 

“Sash,” he says, when she gets closer. “Sleep alright?”

“Yup,” Sasha says, practically vibrating in place. “Did you get anything more out of Martin before he conked out?” 

Tim frowns. “He’s convinced. Said Jon- the one in there,” he jerks his head forward, “Was pretty delirious, not really making much sense.”

Sasha hovers for a second more, bites her lip. “That’s… not great. What do you think of the whole,” she glances around. There are people around, nurses talking to each other, doctors moving from room to room. She lowers her voice. “ The time travel thing.” 

Tim shrugs. “You believe it?” he asks. 

Sasha’s fingers drum against the edge of her notebook. “It fits the evidence,” she hedges. 

Tim rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but do you believe it, Sash?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Sasha lies through her teeth. “I’m waiting to talk to him myself.” 

Tim snorts. He half-smiles. “You’ve already got a list of questions about the future, haven’t you.” 

“Well, maybe.” Sasha perches on the seat on Tim’s other side, flipping open her notebook. “Martin didn’t say how _far_ in the future he was from, but I’m thinking it’s at _least_ ten years, given the-”

“Excuse me,” someone says, and Sasha looks up, flipping her notebook closed. A man in a white coat blinks at them. “Are you all here for Mr. Sims?” 

“Yeah,” Tim says. “He awake?”

“I’m Dr. Thevarajah,” the doctor says, clutching a clipboard. He doesn’t look older than twenty-five. “I’m working his case, I, I take the, um. The ones that. Um.” He glances over his shoulder, into the room. “We have a couple of questions.”

“We don’t really know much,” Tim says. “He’s probably the best person to answer them.” 

Dr. Thevarajah grimaces. “Well. That’s, uh. The, the first thing we need to establish, in a case like this, is, well, is he dangerous?”

Sasha blinks. “Dangerous?” she echoes, leaning forward. 

“Yes,” Dr. Thevarajah says. He’s serious, eyes level. 

Sasha looks at Tim. Tim’s eyebrows are drawn together in a frown. “It’s your duty to take care of him,” Tim says, and there’s a low current of anger in his tone. “He’s _in danger,_ not-”

“Every other patient in the same ward as the last patient we had coming from the Magnus Institute drowned,” Dr. Thevarajah tells them, clutching at his clipboard. “On dry land. In broad daylight. That’s why we put him in his own room. Just, just in case. But, we need to know. Is... is anything else like that likely to-”

“No,” Tim says, teeth bared, leaning forward. Martin’s head slips, and he jerks awake, blinking. 

Sasha puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder. She squeezes gently. “Probably not,” she says. You can never be certain. But Jon wouldn’t hurt people. Not seriously, not on purpose. 

Dr. Thevarajah nods. “Right,” he says, “Thank you.” His eyes catch on something down the hall “Um-” he says, voice tight, “I- I need to. I have other patients.” He backs away, still down the hall. 

Sasha frowns. What could be so- Oh. 

Jon is stalking down the corridor, a thunderstorm brewing on his face. He’s wearing the same shirt as yesterday, though his tie has gone missing, and the bag under his eyes have deepened considerably.

“Well?” he snaps, as soon as he’s close enough. He’s as wound up as a spring. “Any news?” 

“Boss,” Tim says. He’s- awkward, suddenly. 

“Tim,” Jon echoes in the same tone, eyes narrowed. 

Martin shakes his head, sitting up a little. “E-” He stifles a yawn. “Everyone’s here?”

“Yes, Martin,” Jon says, snide. “We’re all here. What’s been happening?”

“Nothing much,” Sasha butts in. “Just, um. Chatting with the doctors.” 

Jon glances at her, but snaps back to Martin. “You talked with it, didn’t you. What did it say?”

Martin frowns. “He,” he says, stressing the pronoun, “said he didn’t do it on purpose. It was an accident. The, uh, the time travel. But, he _did,_ he was from 2018, and-”

Jon scoffs, opening his mouth, but Sasha gets there first. “Three years?” she asks. 

“Yeah,” Martin says. 

“That- That’s a lot of scars, for three years.” Sasha says, frowning.

“Yeah,” Martin repeats, his voice smaller. Concerned. 

“Well, it’s obviously lying about that, then,” Jon says, lips pursed. 

Martin bristles. “He was in a lot of pain, OK, maybe he got a little muddled, but-”

“It wasn’t making sense?” Jon’s lips twist. “Why did you even believe such an obvious-”

“I can tell when people are lying to me, Jon,” Martin snaps, folding his arms. “And you’re not the best at it, are you, so-”

Jon’s eyes narrow. “What does my lying ability have to do with-”

“He is you, Jon,” Sasha says, annoyed. “We established that, we need to move on.” 

“It knows things about me,” Jon says back, “That doesn’t mean it actually-”

“He’s awake,” Tim says, suddenly, and they all turn around. 

In the hospital bed, Other Jon is moving. Trying to sit up. His forehead is creased, fingers tracing up the IV line in his wrist. 

“Right,” Jon says. 

Sasha reaches into her bag, pulls out her notebook. “I have a list of questions we can work off.”

“I also have questions,” Jon says, folding his arms. 

Martin pushes to his feet. “Well, you’ll just have to take turns,” he says firmly. “And he might not be up for much, so I’m not letting you all bother him-” 

“I think knowing if it’s going to _kill me_ is worth _bothering-”_

“Kill you?” Sasha frowns. “He’s not going to kill anyone, Jon, look at him.” 

Other Jon has managed to prop himself up. He’s listing slightly to one side, a confused frown on his face. 

“It could be faking _,_ ” Jon insists, vibrating. “Lulling us into a false sense of security.”

Sasha pinches her nose. “Do you need the Occam’s Razor speech, Jon?” 

“There is _historical precedent_ of-” Jon starts, but Tim’s already opening the door into the room. 

“You guys coming, or what?” he asks. 

Sasha stands up, brushing off her skirt. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so there is a reveal i have been building towards in the next chap (it's The Discussion... Finally) so i should actually be motivated to write it and get it out fairly soon? i think? maybe? (i am sometimes a liar about these things unfortunately) 
> 
> hope you enjoyed the chapter! thought this was dead? no! it's a zombie fic!


	8. your faith is in shreds, it seems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time for these bozos to TALK

They shuffle into the room. There’s only one chair, beside the headboard, cushion half worn away, and Tim drops into it. Jon hangs bac, keeping close to the door. He stares at the doppelganger, and his lip curls. 

It startles as the chair moves, it’s hands twitching. “Hello?” it says. It doesn’t sound like Jon at all. His voice has never been that uncertain. “Is that- Martin?”

Martin leans forward, hands wrapping around the foot of the bed. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’m here, and so is Sasha, and Tim, and…” He pauses for a moment, looking at Jon. “And, uh.” 

Jon doesn’t say anything. He’s too busy looking over his doppelganger, trying to catalogue the differences. It’s hair is long. It’s eyes are- covered, thankfully. It’s thinner than him, which is an accomplishment. The scars, clearly. There are round ones, the size of a pound coin, dotted in clusters everywhere he can see. The hand it reaches up to brush it’s hair back with is misshapen, a burn by the look of it. 

“Jon,” Sasha says brightly, jolting him. She’s on the other side of the bed, leaning over to get a closer look at the doppelganger. “Jon from this time is here too. There’s two of you. Might get a bit confusing.” Her forehead creases. 

“Ah,” the doppelganger says, head turning towards her voice. “That’s, uh. That’s. Sorry, you’re… Sasha?”

Sasha blinks, taken aback. “Yes. I’m- I’m Sasha.” 

It doesn’t know Sasha? Jon expected holes in it’s story, but- It expects them to believe it’s him, and it doesn’t know _Sasha?_

“And, you said Tim?” the doppelganger continues, and there’s _hope_ under it’s tone, “Tim’s here?” 

“Hey boss,” Tim says, and Jon looks at him, but he’s talking to the doppelganger. Leaning forward in his chair, even. “You feeling a bit better?” 

“I’m feeling great,” the doppelganger says, and it’s smiling. Grinning inanely. It looks like a fool. “Good lord. Tim. And- Sasha.”

“Yes,” Jon bites out. “And Martin, and me. We’re all here. Now we’ve taken the bloody register, can we _please_ -”

“Oh,” the doppelganger says, eyebrows rising. “Of course, I’m here. I mean- You’re here. That’s odd.” Its tone is still buoyant, still _hopeful_.

“You are not me,” Jon says, harsh. “And I’d _like_ some _answers._ ” 

The doppelganger’s smile fades. “Of course you would,” it says. It sinks into the sheets a little, the papery material of its hospital gown shifts. There’s a long, straight scar across its neck. 

Jon’s hand rises without him telling it to, fingers trailing over the shape of his own Adam’s apple. His skin is smooth, unbroken. A little dry. He snaps his hand back to his side. 

The doppelganger takes a deep breath. “Well?” it says. “What do you want to- I mean, feel free to ask. Whatever you want.”

Jon starts to speak, but Sasha tries as well, and their questions tumble over each other into a mess of sound. Sasha rolls her eyes. Gestures for Jon to go first. 

“What are you?” Jon asks, eyes narrowed. 

“The Archivist,” the doppelganger answers. There’s a palpable emphasis on the word, something beyond a job title. “Also, Jonathan Sims. I’ve heard I’m a little... temporally displaced.” 

Sasha jumps in, glancing down at her notepad. “How far in the future did you come from?”

“From your perspective?” The doppelganger tilts it’s head to the side slightly. Like Jon does when he’s thinking. “Three years ahead, give or take a month or two.” 

“I told you that,” Martin mutters, giving Sasha a look. 

Sasha shrugs. “Verifying.”

“What do you mean, the Archivist?” Jon presses, “Why do you look like me?” 

“God’s sake, Jon, he looks like you because he _is_ you,” Martin snaps, shooting him a glare. He’s never seen an expression like that on Martin’s face, and it makes him falter. “We know that already.”

Jon musters himself, and glares right back. “ _You_ ask something, then,” he snaps. 

“Fine.” Martin turns to the doppelganger. His eyes land somewhere around the doppelganger’s waist, and he frowns. “Where did you get that tape recorder?”

The doppelganger freezes. The room falls silent, and, suddenly, Jon realises there’s a sound underneath the silence, a low hum. “What tape recorder?” it asks. 

Jon takes a step closer. There _is_ a tape recorder, a plain boxy thing, half hidden in the blankets. It’s on, reels slowly spinning. Something about it makes the hairs on the back of Jon’s head rise. 

“There’s one by your hip,” Martin tells the doppelganger. It’s hand shoots out, pawing around, until it lands on the tape recorder and stills. “You didn’t... put it there?”

“No,” it says, shaken, fingers running over the sides of the recorder. “They turn up, but- I didn’t think-”

“They _turn up?_ ” Sasha says. She bends down, frowning at the recorder. 

Tim straightens up, frowning. “Could one of the doctors- That guy, he thought-” He struggles for a name, “He thought _that_ Jon might be dangerous,” he settles on, jabbing a finger at the doppleganger. “Maybe he planted-”

“No,” the doppelganger says. “No, it was…” It sighs, slumping. “They follow me. Because I’m the Archivist, I think.” 

“Are they _sapient?”_ Sasha asks, eyes snapping up to the doppelganger’s face.

The doppelganger pulls a face. “I certainly hope not.” 

“What do you mean, the Archivist?” Jon asks, eyes narrowing. 

The doppelganger reaches up, rubs it’s forehead. “It’s complicated.”

Jon scoffs. “Of course it is.” 

“It _is_ ,” the doppelganger insists, “There are lots of things I need to ex-”

“Delay us with?” Jon completes sarcastically. “Distract us with stories, so we don’t find out what you really-”

“I am, quite literally, _in the middle of telling you-”_

“And _how_ are we supposed to know if you’re telling the-”

Tim starts laughing. 

Jon whirls on him, frowning, and his dopelganger’s head turns reflexively at the sound, and Tim looks between them and laughs even harder. Sasha joins in, sniggering, and even Martin cracks a smile. 

“What’s so _funny?”_ Jon snarls, looking between them. 

“Just-” Tim says, gasping, “You were- the two of you-” He can’t stop laughing. 

“Exactly the same tone,” Sasha continues. “Exactly the same _expression,_ god.”

“Half my face is covered in bandages,” the doppelganger points out, but it’s smiling too, now. 

Jon clenches his hands into fists. “This is _serious,_ ” he insists. “That thing pretending to be me could start killing us any second, and you’re all-”

“I’m not pretending to be you,” the doppelganger says. “And I’m not going to kill anyone.” 

“Oh yeah?” Jon says, rounding on it. “Well, then why didn’t you recognise Sasha’s voice?”

The laughter stops. 

Sasha bites her lip, glancing between Jon and the doppelganger. 

“You asked who she was,” Jon presses, leaning in. The doppelganger grimaces. “When she spoke, you weren’t sure. You didn’t know her voice. I’ve known Sasha for- for _ages,_ I wouldn’t _forget_ her voice like that.”

“Don’t make promises like that,” the doppelganger says, and it looks like it’s aged years in the span of seconds. “You won’t be able to keep them.”

Jon scoffs, opening his mouth, but the doppelganger keeps talking.

“I don’t remember Sasha’s voice,” it says, calm and steady. “Because, where I come from, _when_ I come from, Sasha-” It falters. Swallows. “Something happened. To her.” 

“I’m sorry,” Tim says. “What?”

“I won’t let it happen again,” the doppelganger says. “To either of you.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sasha says, voice significantly higher pitched than normal. “ _What?_ ”

“Wait,” Martin says, eyes wide, “Tim and Sasha _die?_ Where you’re from? In _three years?”_

The doppelganger swallows. “Yes.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know, i know, another update WITHIN A MONTH! i'm on fire!
> 
> past!jon ily but please. PLEASE. honey. CHILL THE FUCK OUT.


	9. kneel before the king

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time to catch up with future!martin!

Your name is Martin Blackwood. You are walking along a corridor. The corridor is unfamiliar, but it’s a... familiar unfamiliarity, really. You’ve been in the Spiral before. You know what it’s like. 

The walls are cream, and smooth, and bland. There are paintings, every so often, abstract works that shift each time you blink. Mirrors, set almost directly across from each other, reflecting and reflecting and reflecting. You don’t look too close. The carpet is very loud. Some bits are stripy, some bits have those weird curvy lines, some bits look like static. It makes your head hurt. The corridor curves, ever so slightly, just enough that you can’t quite see what’s up ahead. 

You know what’s up ahead. It’s more _fucking_ corridor. 

God, your head hurts. You stop for a moment, lean against the yellow wall- 

Wait. They were cream, weren’t they? Just a second ago, they were- You look again, pain throbbing behind your eyes. The walls are yellow, a very light yellow, a happy, friendly colour. A colour you’d paint a nursery.

You blink, and the walls are bright, blood red. You’re breathing faster. You’re afraid. Were they ever yellow? Was your mind playing tricks on you? What can you trust? 

You shake your head. Es Mentiras, you remind yourself sternly. You haven’t seen Helen since you walked in here, haven’t seen anyone, but- the corridor is a lie. Of course it’s a lie. It’s purpose is to make you doubt yourself.

You close your eyes completely, and think about Jon. 

You’re carrying his cane. You run your hands along the wood, tracing over the nicks and scratches. There’s a sticker near the top, smooth under your fingers. You smile. 

Tim gave Jon the sticker, right after Prentiss. When Jon wasn’t using the cane properly, and limped everywhere instead, and glared daggers at anyone suggested that maybe he should do what the doctors had told him to do. 

Tim had come in, and this was before the whole stalking thing, so he was still smiling. He’d winked at you, and given Jon a sticker. “For your stick,” he’d said, nodding at the cane gathering dust in the corner. “Had one spare.” 

Jon had looked at the little bi flag for a while, then grunted, and left. 

And that afternoon, the sticker was on the cane, and Jon was actually using it. 

You breathe out. You open your eyes, and keep walking. 

After a while, you come across a woman. 

“Helen?” you ask, but before she turns around you know it isn’t her. 

Helen’s hair is always wild. This woman’s hair is braided, in rows along her head, and the braids are twisted into a neat bun. Your eyes catch on them, or a second, following their coils, but you blink and she’s turned, is facing you. 

Her eyes are large and brown. She’s wearing tortoiseshell glasses. “Hello,” she says, in a perfectly ordinary voice. 

“Hi?” you say. 

“Hi?” she says, a perfect copy of your tone. 

You don’t know how to respond to that. 

She adjusts her glasses. They’re half-moons, thin and delicate. “You’ve wandered a long way, Martin Blackwood,” she says softly. 

“I’m looking for a friend of mine,” you tell her carefully. Jon is much more than that. 

Her head tilts. She doesn’t move normally, there’s no lag between her head being straight and it being tilted. It just. Changes. 

“A friend.” she echoes. 

“Yes,” you say, glancing past her. The corridor is the same as it always has been, which means you barely recognise it. “He might have come through here, actually. Looks exhausted? Bout this tall?” You hold out your hand, just below your shoulder. 

The strange woman doesn’t look at your hand. “Your friend did not travel by these passages,” she says. Her eyes are magnified by her glasses' thick rims. “I would not have let him leave.” 

Your mouth feels dry. “Right,” you say. “You’re the Distortion? Another one?”

“That is a name,” she says, head tilting. “Another is the Twisting Deceit. Another is the Maw of Madness. Another is Emma.” 

“Right,” you say, holding the ‘i’ for a second or two. It makes you feel a bit better. “Emma. Lovely to meet you, loved the chat, but I’m afraid I’ve got to get going, got a meeting to get to, you know how it is-”

“You want to leave.” Emma says softly. “Many of those here want to leave.”

“You’ve been great,” you continue, probably babbling by now. “I’ve had a great time, love what you’ve done with the place, but I just need to-”

“I just need to,” she repeats, matching your tone, high and panicked. Her lip curls. “Need is strange. In these corridors, you need no food. You need no water. You need no-”

You breathe in. Tighten your grip on Jon’s cane. “I need to get to my friend,” you tell her firmly. 

She gives you a silent, pitying look. Her glasses are hexagonal, with thick purple frames. 

You purse your lips. “If you’re not going to help me,” you start, “I have a door to find.”

Emma says nothing. She’s looking at your shoulder. She reaches out, hand rising smoothly. You step away, but her arm stays there, outstretched. Her fingers are like knives. “Mother?” she says. 

“What?” You look down, at your own shoulder, and your heart jumps into your throat. 

There’s a jet-black spider perched there. It scuttles down, onto your chest. 

Emma sways forward. The end of her finger brushes your jumper, and the spider crawls onto her hand. She cradles it to her chest, face full of longing. “It is you,” she tells it, gently. 

“Fuck,” you say. The Web. What the hell was one of the Web’s spiders doing on your shoulder? How didn’t you _notice_ it? 

Emma looks up. “You are blessed,” she tells you, her dark eyes clear and unobstructed. 

“OK?” you say carefully.

“The Mother of Puppets has chosen you,” Emma continues, eyes wide. She glances over her shoulder, furtive. “You should leave this place. The Mother cannot reach here. You must leave.” 

“Chosen?” you say, thrown off by the thought of _another_ fear god on your back. 

“I was chosen,” Emma says wistfully, looking back down at the spider in her hands. Her fingers are shorter, rounder than they were. “I served the Mother. Until _Gertrude-”_ She spits the name, face twisting. “-threw me to the madness. The Mother is not madness. She is order, and calm, and trust.” 

“Sounds super fun,” you assure her. “What was that about me leaving? Can we get back to that, please?”

Emma nods her head to the side, not looking up. You look, and there’s a door there, right beside you, bright sunny yellow with a shining brass handle. 

“Thanks,” you tell her, and you open the door. The other side is rough stone, which at least means it’s _probably_ not more of the Spiral. You step through. The door closes behind you, and is gone. It’s very dark. 

The first thing you do is check yourself for more spiders. It’s a little hard without any light, but you do your best. There aren’t any hiding in your hair, or under your jumper, or on your back, or clinging to your leg. Hopefully, it was just the one, and it’s gone now. That would be great. Hell, maybe it wasn’t even a Web spider! There were plenty of spiders in the cottage, hiding in corners. You always used to shoo them outside before Jon saw them and went on a murder spree. Maybe one of them hitched a ride with you. Not all spiders are evil spiders. It could just be a... a coincidence.

You sigh, stomach sinking. You don’t believe in coincidences anymore. God, you miss when you could. 

The sound echoes off the stone in a way that’s… kind of familiar. You haven’t been down into the tunnels below the Institute often, but, well, the last time you were here left a bit of an impression. 

You feel your way forward until you hit a wall. You caught a glimpse before the Spiral’s door closed, of a long tunnel stretching in left and right. You don’t know which way to go, though. Peter was guiding you, before. 

You don’t want to think about Peter. You think of Jon, instead. You’ve still got his cane. You need to get it back to him. 

You go right. One hand trailing along the wall, the other holding Jon’s cane out in front of you. The tunnel floor slopes subtly upward beneath your feet, which is good. After a couple turns, though, the cane clatters against a blank sheet of stone. Which is not good. You feel along it for a second, and find nothing.

You groan, long and loud. You are _sick_ and _tired_ of being lost. You almost bang Jon’s cane against the stone, but you don’t want to scuff it. 

You turn around, but before you can take a step, there’s a low rumble. The stone wall parts, light peeking through from the other side. A book snaps closed. 

A torch beam flicks up from where the wall was a second ago, hitting you square in the face. You flinch back, throwing up a hand. 

“Shit, sorry!” a familiar voice says, and the torch beam jerks down a little. “Wait, who are you?” the voice continues, “What are you doing down here?”

“What the hell are you playing at?” you say, anger rising beneath your tone. “You know damn well who I am.”

Elias Bouchard frowns at you. “I really don’t,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D 
> 
> marto has arrived! now, this chapter reveals some Stuff. if you're confused, don't worry, chuck a comment in and i can give a plain explanation of what's happening. going back to look at the other f!mart chapter (chapter 4) might help connect some dots! (also don't worry the second person is just for this chap. i think it's spicy, and good for the disorientation of the spiral, but the main story will be in third person like normal :D )
> 
> this chap got completed a little later than i wanted it to be, partially because i finally finished my nb!jon fic! check that out over [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29285499), it's got plenty of feelings and also a happy ending :)

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued :D


End file.
